


This author cannot think of a title for the life of her.

by DeathHowler



Category: No Fandom
Genre: AO3 Tags - Freeform, F/F, F/M, How Do I Tag, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25206070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathHowler/pseuds/DeathHowler
Summary: Work in progress. This is not a story, just some random ideas that I get now and then. The rating and tags are just in case if my brain decides to be weird and make me write gore or something.





	This author cannot think of a title for the life of her.

The artificial sun is blasting heat and blinding creatures. Robot peregrine falcons are soaring along with live magpies. People and androids and mutants and shapeshifters are strolling, sprinting, and marching along the lively, bustling, neon-lit streets. Transportation devices are zooming past, leaving dazzling glow and magic dust behind. You look up to see a giant digital calendar. It says “December 19th, 7052”. Slowly, floating into your view: a butterfly. Two butterflies.

A robotic one and a live one, twirling together in a beautiful dance as if depicting a lighthearted love story. As the pair is flying by, the robot suddenly slows and lands on your friend's shoulder, its wings fluttering to a stop. You can’t help but notice how carefully constructed it is, how vintage the hand-carved bronze looks. It must be from that factory that manufactures vintage and steampunk-styled robots. There aren’t many of these around, since the workers hand-make everything.

Your friend turns around slowly, feeling the weight of the butterfly gradually disappear, and smiles lightly. She seems tired, but her smile is genuinely content. The slightly drained look must be from her baby.

“I can’t thank you enough for bringing me here. My baby loves vintage stuff. See? He can sense it.”

There seems to be some movement in your friend’s belly. The little one’s happy. How adorable.

“Oh wow,” she suddenly muses as the silhouette of the factory comes into view, “it's huge.”

“Yeah. Do you have any idea about what it looks like on the inside?”

“No. But no spoilers! I wanna see for myself.”

“Whatever you say,” you grin.

You start to lead her to the steampunk factory. The name starts to appear: Vindemia. Latin for “vintage”.

Eight magnificent letters, gleaming in the light, incandescent and dazzling, hypnotizing the crowd along with the brilliant bronze complexion of the factory.

“Holy crap,” your friend murmurs. Also completely in awe, you let out a breathless sigh.

“Wait, hold on. I gotta take a picture of you,” you announce after coming back to your senses. “The lighting and all is just absolutely perfect. You can clearly see the factory, too.”

You whip out your phone and get the camera out. Your friend turns back halfway with a ghost of a smile on her face. You quickly snap a photo.

“How do I look?”

“Drop-dead gorgeous.”

“You’re such a flatterer.”

You two decide to continue walking. A moment passes when neither of you speaks. It isn’t all unpleasant. Being out on the noisy street like this, it’s nice to quiet down sometimes. You both smile and watch the busy streets pass by in a blur.

But this peacefulness will not last long.

Out of nowhere, you hear a strange sound. It seems, ominously, like missiles. You look to the sky in horror, afraid that whatever’s coming would hit you and your friend. Her head jerks up, too, alarmed and frightened. She must have heard it, too. With the crowd, you both stare in fear as the object zips into view. A fighter jet zooms across the horizon, aiming straight for the artificial sun. The vital life-support and supply source for Proxima Centauri B. Without it, the planet’s system will collapse in the blink of an eye.

But nobody can help. No hovercars, no magic, can make it as high as the fighter jets. The entire planet is doomed. You watch in despair as the jet crashes into its target.

Boom.

...

The artificial sun is hanging dead and fading away. Robot peregrine falcons are screeching along with live magpies. People and cyborgs and mutants and shapeshifters are shouting, sobbing, and mourning along the lifeless, dull, sombre emergency lights. The security forces somehow heard the news in time and managed to teleport everything they could into the escape pods. You look out to see your former home.

It is now disintegrated.


End file.
